Highway 61... the Blues Highway. That long lonesome stretch of road joining New Orleans and Chicago. That mythical road that, for generations of Black musicians, promised fame and fortune. Or else: Highway 49 leading straight back into Clarksdale... and life back in the cottonfields.

The Crossroads. That very junction where Blues legend Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil for his chance at musical immortality.

Oh, he got it all right. He left behind a mournful legacy of just 42 glorious tracks, crudely etched on scratchy acetate. And just 29 songs. Luck and posterity assures them and their composer a place in the musical pantheon. But where is his soul today?

You might not find it in the dreary, whitebread Delta Blues Museum in this sleepy little town. But then, maybe not. Perhaps it still exists in the booths of Abe's BBQ or on the porch Miss Del's General Store.

You might find it out of town amongst the barns and sheds around the cotton fields of Stovall Farms, where Muddy Waters grew up. Or you might hear it in the voices of a few old sharecroppers and laboureres who still strum a guitar and cling to the traditions of the delta blues in the last of the juiced-up juke joints such as "Ground Zero" (now co-owned by Morgan Freeman) or the beautifully battered and seedy bar at "Reds".

Robert, Muddy, Brownie, T-Bone, Slim, Sleepy John and Blind Lemon might be long gone now but one thing is for sure, their blues blew through here with a frenzy one time. And on a moody, moonless evening you might still hear the strumming, wailing spectre of Robert Johnson howling down Clarksdale's empty streets or camped up along the lonely river bank. If you listen close enough.